All the Sweet Tomorrows

by Bertrice Small

  “Dearest Murrough, I am delighted, and so grateful to Elizabeth Clinton for letting you come!” Skye hugged her second eldest son. “You have grown thin. Are you eating properly? I know how it is with pages. You are always so busy there isn’t enough time to eat or to sleep.”

  He grinned down at her. “Yes, I am eating, but I have grown four inches in the last year, Mama. I guess now that my meals have to go further I need to eat even more if I am to satisfy you. How is Ewan?”

  “He’s fine,” she replied. Then, “You miss him, don’t you?”

  “Aye, I miss him, and Ireland, too.”

  “You understand why you must stay here, Murrough?”

  “Aye, Mama, I understand. I am landless, and even if you settle monies on me, a man without his own land is nothing.”

  “There is Joan Southwood to think of too, Murrough. She deserves her own home.”

  “How is she?” he asked.

  “Growing quite lovely, Murrough. Her hair has become a beautiful golden brown, and reaches to her hips; and her eyes have just a hint of Geoffrey’s green in them. They are quite a delicious hazel color. She is, of course, as sweet-natured as ever, and works quite diligently on the items of her trousseau she believes you will appreciate. She is half through a large tapestry depicting a knight slaying a dragon. Anne says she is a very accomplished needlewoman. She is going to make you a fine wife.”

  “I know, Mother, and I thank you for making me such a good match. Joan is a good girl, and will suit me admirably. I’ll win her, and the children we will have someday, fair lands in the Queen’s service. See if I don’t!”

  “I know that you will, Murrough.” Skye gave him another hug. “You know of my impending marriage?”

  “Aye. Is it what you want?”

  “No, but I have no choice. I must protect your half-brother’s lands, and the Anglo-Irish in the Dublin Pale eye the Burke lands like ravenous wolves. I needed a favor from the Queen, and royalty never gives from the heart.”

  He nodded in understanding. Murrough O’Flaherty was twelve years old. He had been two when his mother disappeared, and six when he had been reunited with her again. He was nine when his stepfather, Geoffrey Southwood, the Earl of Lynmouth, had died, and ten when he had been sent into service as a page with the Earl and Countess of Lincoln’s household. Of necessity he had grown to maturity quickly. He knew that with his mother’s money he should never want for the material things in life, but he also knew that if he was to win his own lands, and, he hoped, a title, it must be in the service of England’s Queen. He comprehended, perhaps better than any of his brothers and sisters, his mother’s difficult position.

  “Do you want me with you?” he asked her half hopefully, for he loved her dearly.

  Skye’s eyes filled with quick tears, which she rapidly blinked away. “Thank you, Murrough,” she said. “When I am settled I will want you to visit me, and meet your new stepfather, but I will not spoil the progress you have made here at court.” She touched his cheek gently in a maternal gesture of gratitude. “Go and speak with your brother and sister now, my knight errant.”

  He moved off, and Robbie, who had been sitting opposite her the entire time, sniffed loudly. “They’re a fine litter, your children,” he muttered.

  “Go see Dame Cecily now,” she scolded him. “She is probably up and wondering where you are.”

  “When is Edmond de Beaumont coming?”

  “He’s been asked for seven. I think I shall have the children, too. There are no other guests. Just you, your sister, and myself.”

  He nodded. “We’ll not be late? I have some business to see to this evening.”

  Skye laughed. “We’ll not be late,” she said, knowing that his evening “business” was with a whorehouse.

  “The beef was good,” he said, rising, and then ambled out of her dayroom, patting the children’s heads as he went.

  “Who wants to go riding with me?” Skye demanded of her children, and they all noisily assented. “Go and change then,” she ordered them. “I shall be ready in fifteen minutes, and anyone who’s not won’t go!”

  The two boys and the girl scattered out the door of her apartments, and Skye called to Daisy.

  It was one of those rare, very warm April days in England. There was not a cloud in the flawless blue sky, and the sun shone with a clear yellow light. The flowering trees were all in bloom, the meadows bright green with new growth. Skye and her children rode along the river, enjoying their time together. Afterward they picnicked in the garden behind Greenwood House, watching the river traffic as it passed them by, the children gorging themselves with meat pastries, early wild strawberries, and watered wine. Stuffed and sleepy, they lay upon their backs, talking and blowing at the bumblebees and butterflies who ventured near them. As the afternoon lengthened they all fell asleep in the soft, warm air. It was there Daisy found them; Skye, her arms spread wide and protective about her two sons, Willow sleeping across her mother’s lap.

  For a moment Skye’s faithful tiring woman gazed upon her mistress and the three children. They looked so peaceful that it seemed a shame to awaken them. A tear, and then another slid down Daisy’s honest English face as she thought of the exile that she and Skye were facing. It wasn’t fair of the Queen to send them away, send her lady who was always such a good mother from her children, but then what would the childless Elizabeth Tudor know of maternal feelings. The tears poured freely down Daisy’s face now, and she wept for herself as well. What would happen now between herself and Bran Kelly? He had been close, she knew, to declaring himself. She wondered if she would ever see him again.

  “You don’t have to come with me to Beaumont de Jaspre, Daisy,” said Skye, looking up at her servant, seeing the tears and knowing why Daisy wept.

  Daisy plumped herself down in the grass next to her mistress. “And who would take care of you, m’lady, if I stayed behind?”

  “It is several weeks before I leave. You could train a clever lass in that time.”

  “It wouldn’t be the same, m’lady.”

  “No, Daisy, it wouldn’t, but I’d not have you unhappy. You have been my friend as well as my servant.”

  “That’s part of it, m’lady. You’re going to a strange place, to a strange man, and who knows what you’ll find in this Beaumont de Jaspre. You’ll need me! I couldn’t leave you, m’lady, I couldn’t!”

  In her heart Skye was relieved. As it was, she was dreading the journey she must make, and knowing that Daisy was going with her made it a lot easier. “Will it help if I tell you that Captain Kelly will be frequently in Beaumont de Jaspre?”

  Daisy’s face lit up, and she smiled her gap-toothed smile. “Yes, m’lady, it helps a great deal!” she said happily, then added, “Oh, m’lady! I came to tell you it is time for you and the children to return to the house and dress for dinner. M’sieur de Beaumont will be arriving soon.”

  The sound of the adult voices had awakened the three children, and they stirred, each sitting up and stretching wide. “Come, poppets,” Skye said, moving Willow from her lap and standing up. “Our guest will soon be arriving, and we must be dressed and ready to receive him.”

  Skye and the three children scrambled up, and together the five gathered up the picnic things, then made their way back through the garden to the house.

  “You will all take baths,” Skye commanded her children.

  “Yes, Mama,” Willow replied dutifully, but Murrough and Robin groaned loudly, rolling their eyes at each other in mock horror.

  Skye ignored them, and with Daisy moved upstairs to her own apartments, where the two undermaids already had her oaken tub filled with steaming water, fragrant with bath oil of damask rose, her personal fragrance. The tub had been set before the bedroom fireplace, where a cheerful blaze now burned. While their mistress stood quietly the undermaids removed her clothing and riding boots, then hurried off with the garments to clean and freshen them. Daisy helped Skye up the small ladder and into her tub, pi
nning her mistress’s hair up quickly.

  “You want a few minutes to soak, I can tell,” Daisy said.

  Skye nodded. “I’ll call,” she replied. “Don’t let me daydream too long.” She sank deep into the water, seating herself on the little stool placed within the tub, so she might relax in hot water up to her neck. She had dictated a quick note to Adam de Marisco that morning before she went riding with the children, telling him that the Queen had made a political marriage for her and that she would be leaving England very soon. “Tell him,” she said to Jean Morlaix, “tell him that I want to see him, that he must come to London.” The letter had been off immediately by one of the Lynmouth grooms, and sitting now in her scented tub, Skye wondered whether Adam would come to her. Robbie was right, of course. She couldn’t leave England without seeing him a final time.

  Dearest Adam! Adam who wouldn’t marry her for fear he might ruin her life by taking her from some great new love she was going to find. She almost laughed aloud at the thought. From the looks of the duc he did not fit that description. How much better off she would have been if Adam had wed with her, before she had gone to Cecil. At least Adam was her friend and her confidant, her sometime lover, and she enjoyed being with him. She had been vulnerable when she had appealed to Lord Burghley, and he had used that vulnerability against her. It was the very thing Adam had feared. She sighed. The die was cast, and for all intents and purposes she was on her way to Beaumont de Jaspre.

  “Daisy!” she called, drawing herself put of her reverie.

  “I’m here, m’lady,” came the reply as Daisy hurried in to help bathe her mistress. “I’ve laid out a black velvet gown, m’lady. The one with the black and silver brocade underskirt.”

  Skye nodded, not particularly interested in her clothing at this moment; she could trust Daisy to see that she looked her best. Dressing was no longer any fun. When she had had Khalid and Geoffrey and Niall to dress for, then she had cared. Her bath finished, she climbed from the tub and stood quietly while Daisy dried and powdered her. Automatically Skye put on her undergarments, her black silk underblouse, and her black silk stockings, which she fastened with elegant silver-ribboned garters. Silently she slipped her feet into plain black silk shoes with silver rosettes. Then came the underskirt and, finally, the dress with its slashed sleeves showing matching brocade.

  “Jewelry?” Daisy asked.

  “Pearls,” her mistress replied. “Pink pearls. That long double-strand necklace, the matching earrings, and the hair ornaments.”

  “Very good, m’lady.” Daisy hurried to get the jewel case containing these treasures and, coming back with it, she reverently lifted each piece from the red morocco leather case lined in palest blue silk, and handed it to her mistress.

  Skye looped the necklace over her head, and the pearls settled down upon her chest coming just above her deep cleavage. Her earbobs, fat pink pearls, hung from her ears on thin gold wires. While Skye saw to her jewelry, Daisy busied herself brushing out her mistress’s long blue-black hair and styling it into the soft French chignon that Skye favored. She then affixed to the heavy, silky mane the pink pearl and gold hair ornaments that matched Skye’s necklace and earrings.

  “Rings?” Daisy held out another open jewel case.

  Skye pondered the selection, picking up several rings and discarding them as quickly. She finally settled on a heart-shaped ruby, a black pearl, and a large round diamond. “These will do,” she murmured, pushing them onto her slender fingers. Then, reaching for her scent bottle, she daubed her rose fragrance between her breasts, at her wrists, and behind her ears. Had she been dressing for a lover, she would have spent far more time perfuming herself, and Daisy knew it. “There,” Skye said, and she stood up. “I am ready, and our guest has not yet arrived. I shall go downstairs to await him, Daisy. Will you see to the children?”

  As she descended the stairs, however, Edmond de Beaumont was coming through the door. He was beautifully attired in green velvet. “Madam,” he called to her, “you are even fairer today, if such a thing is possible!” He caught her hand up and kissed it.

  “Welcome, Edmond!” she returned his greeting, and led him into her reception salon where, to her surprise, Robbie was already waiting. The sea captain turned, his glance closed and thoughtful. “Why, Robbie,” Skye said, “I didn’t know that you were down already. Edmond de Beaumont, my dearest friend, and my business partner, Sir Robert Small. Robbie, this is the Petit Sieur de Beaumont, Edmond de Beaumont.”

  The two men greeted each other cautiously, and then Edmond said, “Thank heavens! When you mentioned this man, Skye, I feared that he might be your lover.”

  “My lover?” Her first thought was to be offended—and angry. She didn’t need this sort of thing! Her lover, indeed! Then, suddenly, she saw the humor in the situation, and she giggled. The situation was made even funnier to her mind by Robbie, who, having recovered from his initial shock at Edmond de Beaumont’s words, began to roar with outrage.

  “Christ’s bones! That’s a filthy French thought if I ever heard one! Has the Queen given you to a froggie then, Skye? I’ll not have it! Her lover!” His hand went to his sword. “You’ve been insulted, and so have I!”

  “No, Robbie!” Skye cautioned.

  Edmond de Beaumont had quickly realized his mistake, but he was a proud young man, and Robert Small’s furious tone had begun to offend him. It was up to her to defuse the situation. Reaching out, she touched Robbie’s hand in a gesture of conciliation. “Edmond meant no harm, Robbie.” Then she turned to the younger man. “I was not aware that you misunderstood the situation, m’sieur.” Her tone was cool.

  “You said he was your cher ami, madame,” was the reply.

  “I said he was one of the two best friends that I had in this world, Edmond.” She bit her lip to keep from laughing. “God only knows what you will think when you meet Adam de Marisco, my other friend.”

  “I will think him a very lucky man, madame, and I beg that you forgive me. You also, Sir Robert. In Beaumont de Jaspre a woman is not a friend. She is a wife, a mistress, a mother, or a servant. You understand what I am saying?” He looked very anxious.

  Robert Small shook his head. “You can’t do this, Skye. Even for the Burke lands, you can’t marry this duc. You hear his nephew. They have no respect for a woman’s intelligence in this place. You will be a thing to this man, an animal to be bred, no more. I can’t allow you to destroy yourself in this manner.”

  “Robbie, I must obey the Queen! I cannot fight off the Anglo-Irish and their English friends. I need a strong ally, and Elizabeth Tudor is that ally. Her price is high, but pay it I must. If I balk now she will destroy me entirely. It will be all right, you will see. The duc and I shall come to a comfortable arrangement between us.”

  Robert Small looked to Edmond de Beaumont, but now the young man’s face was smooth and devoid of emotion. “Well, M’sieur de Beaumont,” Robbie demanded, “will Skye be able to come to an agreement with your uncle, or will it be as I have said?”

  “My uncle is an old-fashioned man, Sir Robert, but he has a good mind. He is intelligent, and although Lady Burke’s independence will come as a bit of a shock to him, he will come to understand that this is the way she is, and I think he will even enjoy it. His first wife was a distant cousin from Florence, and a very timid lady. My uncle’s second wife was the daughter of a neighboring nobleman. She was a vapid little thing, really more a child than a woman.

  “You, Skye, are far different from either of those ladies. Be patient with Uncle Fabron. It will take you a little time, but I know that you will win him over, and he will appreciate your intelligence as well as your beauty. You are the perfect wife for him. You must not be concerned, for I live at the castle and I will always be there to be your friend.”

  “I’ll be there also,” Robbie said. “Be warned, M’sieur de Beaumont, that I will be making my home in Beaumont de Jaspre until I am sure that Skye is safe and happy.” He put his arm about her. �
�This is the daughter I never had, and she is most dear to me and to my sister. Her eldest daughter is my heiress. For all our lack of blood ties, she is my family, and I will not have her hurt!”

  Edmond de Beaumont could not help the admiring look that crept into his violet eyes. He had not doubted from the moment he had first seen Skye that she was a woman that men loved, but that she could command such loyalty was indeed impressive. “You may trust me, Sir Robert,” he said. “Skye will be happy in Beaumont de Jaspre. I promise it.”

  The doors to the salon opened, and Dame Cecily and the children entered. Edmond de Beaumont noted the proud, loving look on Skye’s face, but remembering her manners, she introduced him to Sir Robert’s sister before drawing her children forward to meet him. Dame Cecily, warned to his size, greeted him courteously before turning to her brother, saying, “I heard you roaring like a lion all the way to the second landing, Robert. I hope that you are not giving M’sieur de Beaumont a bad impression of England and the English.”

  “On the contrary, madam,” Edmond de Beaumont quickly interjected. “Your brother has given me the very best possible impression of the English.”

  “I want you to meet my children, Edmond,” Skye now said. “This,” she gestured gracefully with her hand to a tall boy who looked so very much like her, “is my son, Murrough O’Flaherty.”

  The boy, dressed elegantly in black velvet, white silk, and lace, bowed beautifully, a lock of his hair falling across his forehead as he lowered his head. “M’sieur de Beaumont, I am pleased to greet you,” he said in a voice that Edmond could hear was but newly changed.

  “And I you, sir,” Edmond replied courteously.

  “My daughter, Willow,” Skye said, and Willow, gowned in red velvet, curtseyed prettily.

  Edmond de Beaumont bowed in return. “Mademoiselle Willow.”

  “My son, Robin, the Earl of Lynmouth,” Skye said.

  “M’sieur de Beaumont.”